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Teddy’s loyal, see. They say he’s mad, a degenerate, a slag, and a criminal—he’s never denied any of that—but one thing no one can accuse him of is being a turncoat.
So, he’s entirely surprised at Frances’s proposal to him, stolen in an odd moment of privacy in the trailer. Ron’s gone to ask about more funds for Enugu and isn’t going to be back for a few more hours, but the way Frances keeps glancing out the window and door makes it seem like Ron’s going to pop out any minute now.
People treat Ron like some sort of monster, and Teddy resents it. That’s why the trailer is here in the first place. It’s an isolated sort of paradise, with nothing connecting them to the outside world, except for the radio. From the records of dancing music stacked below the table where the phonograph sits or the clutter of knick-knacks Ron brings back from shops that have caught his fancy, the close quarters make it feel like a home. Outside is a rickety round table with the non-matching curved metal seat and the plush armchair with a plump pillow, where he and Ron take their tea and greasy breakfasts they sometimes eat with their fingers, tossing their trash into the small waste bin because Ron doesn’t like soiling the woods where the leaves turn golden and brown and create a carpet that sticks to their shoes.
As far as Teddy knows, Ron’s never brought any of his boys, least of all Leslie, to this place. He’s had it long before Teddy came ‘round, a shelter away from the bustling streets and converging crowds.
Teddy tries to not get too proud about the drawer filled with the pastel silk shirts Ron likes to tear off his body or the key Teddy keeps on a chain underneath his suits. He also tries not to like how only Reggie was allowed up here as a guest, until Frances came along.
Frances now looks at him, desperate and with trembling lips and teary eyes. "You can leave him,“ she quietly pleads again. "We can leave together.”
“I won’t marry you,” Teddy says, and he inwardly smirks at Frances’s slightly impatient, if patronizing look. But still, one of his favorite things is to play the stupid, pretty boy and yank it out from underneath unsuspecting feet. Ron loves that, loves seeing smiles drop like dead horses from sneering, unsuspecting businessmen and soundly rewarding him afterward.
“You don’t have to, and I don’t want you to,” she replies slowly, as if he’s a child. “But just come with me, okay? I can’t run away alone. You can…you can protect me, yes?”
Teddy’s known how to shoot, how to fight, how to steal, how to lie before Ron. There’s all sorts of rumors of Ron teaching his boys other things besides fucking, but Teddy prides himself in being competent, for giving Ron a bit of a shock when they first met. You’re a real wicked thing, Ron had murmured, and Teddy grinned, the sort of arrogant, cheeky smirk that got him a lot of backhands. You’re real mad. Mad Teddy.
He tries not to think too hard about Ron leaving him in the backseat of the car, gun already out, and storming towards the house. Teddy can help him. Ron knows he can, but doesn’t allow him to do more than intimidate with a sneer and a lean over a table or coax with a coy little smirk. He can go into proper shootouts—he can—
“I can,” Teddy says.
Frances nods frantically. “Good. Help me. Please.”
He can see why Frances wants to leave. Everyone thinks Ron is the frightening one, but Reggie is dangerous in his cool-headedness. He can be obsessive and savage like Ron, yet he’d stop and think about the best way to do you in.
Reggie even scares Teddy a bit, not that he’ll ever say so to Ron. Half the time he asks Teddy how Ron’s doing, Teddy has an inkling that Reggie’s spying. Take your pills, Reggie keeps telling Ron, then Teddy when Ron gets in his moods.
I don’t need them! Ron shouts, then they crash into bed and fuck, both of them gasping in between scratches and fingers pressed hard into hips. Tell me I don’t need them, Teddy. Tell me,Ron grunts between kisses like cigarette burns, and Teddy clutches at his shoulders, hissing, No, no, you don’t, no…
But oh, does Teddy know, deep, deep down that he does, because he’s the one who keeps teasing or smiling or smoothing a hand down Ron’s hand to keep him from exploding. He’s like a bucket full of water trying to put out a forest fire, some days, but he can’t bear to let Ron keep burning, keep destroying himself, keep screaming inside his mind. He’s not the only one there for ornamental purposes or a good fuck, Teddy knows, but he is the one who keeps Ron…well, not stable, like Reggie wants, but happy, happy as Ron can be, that is.
He loves Ron, though—loves the quiet breaths when they sink down onto their bed, the calloused fingers loading a polished gun, the private smirks of contentment and amusement whenever Teddy makes a cheeky remark. He loves Ron deadly, the kind of man who has a gun to your temple but doesn’t shoot. He loves Ron laughing, getting up on the stage of Esmeralda’s barn to blow another horn or tell another droll joke.
He can’t imagine life without that.
“I won’t leave Ron.”
Frances sighs exasperatedly, almost angrily. “You and Reggie! Won’t leave Ron—why? He’s as mad as a hatter and just—just—he isn’t good for you. Both of you. I know how you feel, but—”
Teddy stands up from the bed, tilting up his chin and pointing at the door. "I think you need to get out. Ron’s going to be back any minute, and I don’t want to tell him why you were here.”
Frances stands, clutching her bag, but shoots him a scathing, almost disdainful look before she steps out of the trailer. “You’re like me: you can’t separate the gangster from the man. I don’t know which is scarier: you not realizing it, or you knowing and staying.”
The door slams with a clang. Teddy sits back down, chest heaving with what he thinks is wild laughter, and waits for Ron to come home.